


Graveyard Overtures

by LeeBlack



Series: Wolves at Your Door [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Slash, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeBlack/pseuds/LeeBlack
Summary: The next few weeks weighed heavier on Stiles than he'd expected, healing from his injuries as he attended the funerals of officers he'd known since he was a child. And somehow, in the midst of his grief, Peter Hale shows up and offers a distraction from his current focus.It was difficult to accept, finding a sense of relief in the older werewolf, and yet, he was unable to resist the temptation that was Peter Hale.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Wolves at Your Door [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720972
Comments: 20
Kudos: 917





	Graveyard Overtures

For the next few weeks, as his injuries healed and bruises faded, Stiles as almost convinced that the entire conversation with Peter Hale was just a bizarre sort of injury-induced fever dream. He hadn’t seen any of the werewolves in town - Scott included, and that particular werewolf was also not answering Stiles’s repeated calls and text messages.

Whatever.

His father was still consumed with the burglaries, working doubles almost every night and crashing at the precinct more often than not. In passing, he’d mentioned to Stiles that that was going to be the norm until he was able to hire another half-dozen deputies.

Stiles hadn’t quite been able to avoid the weight of that realization - the Kanima had killed half of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s staff and injured three others. Most of the officers who’d been killed had been cops Stiles had known for years. One of them, Terrance Reed, had taught Stiles how to pick a lock when he was eight, thinking it hilarious, and his cousin Mike had only built on that, teaching Stiles on his eleventh birthday how to properly hotwire a car -a skill perfected during time undercover before he’d transferred to Beacon Hills.

Attending their funerals, watching the two coffins lowered into twin graves, had hit him harder than Gerard’s cane.

He lingered in the cemetery long after the funerals had ended and the small crowd dispersed. He found himself wandering first toward his mother’s headstone, not surprised to see the rosebush next to it blooming. For as much as his father couldn’t talk about Claudia, he never failed to visit her.

It didn’t take long before he found himself walking away from the headstone, toward the far end of the cemetery. He didn’t have any specific destination in mind, but again, he wasn’t surprised when his feet stopped in front of a large marble obelisk.

This was more memorial than grave, he knew; the names of all the Hales etched into the black marble, starting with Talia and ending with Laura. Eleven names in total.

He wasn’t alone for too long, feeling someone walk up to stand next to him.

“My nephew has always been the sentimental type,” Peter said quietly, looking at the obelisk.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Stiles asked, the question escaping before he could think better of it.

Peter hummed noncommittally. “Only in the sense that this might be vandalized by passing hunters, but there is no immediate danger in honoring the dead,” he said. He pointed to a name in the middle of the list. “Emily was my older sister, two years younger than Talia, and her two children, Patrick and Stewart, were both human. She was far and above my favorite in the Pack.”

Ignoring the more loaded part of that confession, the teenager decided to inquire about the names. “Patrick and Stewart?” Stiles asked.

He nodded, an odd look on his face. “Twins. She had a strange sense of humor. Was determined that her next litter would either be James and Kirk or Deanna and Troi,” he said.

Stiles snorted. “Fan of Star Trek?”

“Not until her wife Anaise introduced her to it. They used to hoard the theater room in the basement, watching entire seasons in one sitting while Emily was pregnant.”

Stiles hesitated for a moment. “My mom really liked Xena: Warrior Princess. She made a whole thing of it when there was a new episode on. Built a sheet fort in the living room, ordered pizza, and she’d let me have as much ginger beer as I could handle.”

“Ginger beer?”

Stiles nodded. “Nonalcoholic, but it was the closest thing to soda she let into the house,” he said. “I used to feel real grown up about it, being able to watch tv and drink beer with my parents.”

“Our families would have gotten along quite well, I think. Or, at least, your mother, Emily and Anaise,” Peter said gently. “And you have my condolences for the fallen officers. I understand you knew the deceased.”

He shrugged loosely. “Thanks,” he said emptily.

Peter was silent for a moment, looking at the obelisk with an inscrutable look on his face. After a long, surprisingly amiable silence, he straightened. “Now, while I can certainly understand a need to mourn those who’ve passed, might I suggest we adjourn to a more pleasant setting?”

“Do you always talk like a Disney villain, dude?” Stiles asked, the sudden segue taking him by surprise.

Peter smirked, just watching Stiles.

It didn’t take him long to relent. “Sure,” he said, shrugging again. “Where’d you have in mind?”

“I thought I might show you my house.”

“You got something already?”

He nodded. “My identity has been fully restored and house purchased in cash. I am well on my way to be an honest citizen. Of course, money helped to grease those particular wheels.”

Stiles snorted. “Honest.”

“That hurts, Stiles,” Peter said. pressing a hand to his chest, amusement clear on his face. “When have I been anything but honest with you?” he asked.

“And what do you get out of showing me your house?” Stiles asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“The pleasure of your company, of course,” he said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dialing up the creep factor isn’t going to help you here, Brian.”

Peter frowned briefly. “Lazarus I understood, sweet boy, but Brian?”

He grinned over at the man. “Brian Griffin. Family Guy. Dog they brought back to the show after killing off. Viewers weren’t happy about him being dead and all,” he said. “I’d make a Pretty Little Liars reference, but I’m not too keen on the name Alison currently.”

“And is there something wrong with my actual name?” Peter asked.

Stiles shrugged. “You have food at your house?” he asked.

“I’m sure I can fix something for you,” he said. “Did you drive here?”

He shook his head. “Came in the convoy,” he said. “With my dad.”

Peter looked at him, almost like he had something to say, before shaking his head slightly. “Fortunately for you, I parked not far. Did you need any more time here?”

He shook his head, gaze straying toward his mother’s headstone. “No,” he said quietly.

Peter took a small step back, holding his hand out in front of him. “This way,” he said.

Stiles hesitated for only a brief moment before walking toward the rear parking lot. “You parked in the employee lot?” he asked.

“It offered the most shelter,” he said. “And I had no interest in disrupting the proceedings by parking among squad cars.”

Stiles was about to ask what Peter meant when he caught sight of the sole car in the parking lot. “ _Shit_ , dude, that’s not a car. That’s the goddamn Batmobile,” he said, only barely able to keep his jaw from dropping.

Peter hummed. “A recurring vice of mine,” he said. “Lexus LC, top of the line. It’s not the Aston I used to have, but it’s a serviceable enough replacement.”

Stiles just gave him a flat look. “Have you always been in a midlife crisis?”

Peter chuckled. “I’m only just thirty.” He frowned. “Or thirty six, I suppose.” An odd look passed over his face and he fell unexpectedly silent.

Stiles frowned slightly but didn’t say anything, not sure how to respond to that.

It didn’t take Peter long to regroup, pulling on a more neutral expression. “Nonetheless, I have never been one to deprive myself of the finer things in life,” he said. “My nephew may lean toward muscle cars, but I find luxury has always been a bit easier on the senses.”

“What are the chances you’ll let me drive that thing?” Stiles asked, looking over at Peter with what he hoped was an effective pleading expression.

Peter laughed, previous discomfort seemingly forgotten. “Not unless I’m bleeding to death and unable to stop you from prying the keys from my claws,” he said. “Passenger’s seat,” he instructed, pointing at the passenger’s side door. “But I certainly appreciate your ambition.”

Stiles scowled but did as told, unable to stop from running a hand over the hood of the coupe, not quite able to believe it was real. As he got inside, he didn’t resist the urge to fidget with the buttons as he got comfortable and Peter started the car. When the seat seat warmed suddenly, he jumped up, squirming around on the seat before pressing the same button, Peter chuckled lowly.

“Found the seat warmer, did you?” he asked.

“Dude, this _car_. I love my Jeep, but this car is a piece of _art_ ,” Stiles said, stroking the dashboard almost reverently.

Peter looked over at him. “I was unaware you had such a passion for cars.”

Stiles was silent for another moment. “I take after my mom,” he said. “She used to fix up old cars. She had an old Porsche for a while, but we sold it when, well, we sold it. She taught me everything I know about fixing cars.”

“I suspect she’s largely responsible for your ability to keep your Jeep running off of duct tape and love magic?”

Stiles huffed, but didn’t say anything. He turned his focus onto the road, watching curiously as Peter drove them into the small arts district past the few blocks that made up Beacon Hills Historic District. “You bought a house out with the hippies?”

“The hippies weren’t able to keep up with the mortgage in such an upscale neighborhood,” he said. “Which worked out all the better for me, since I’d expected to pay almost double for a place like what I got”

“What, were you looking for an arts district house?”

Peter nodded. “I used to live near here while they were converting the area into the arts district,” he said.

Stiles frowned. “Wait, I thought-”

“Talia and her family lived in the Pack house. Emily and her family lived not far from your house, actually, and I had a house near here,” he said before falling silent for a long moment. “Before the fire, our territory was stable. There were no major threats, and those that did present themselves were handled efficiently, before the more vulnerable members of our Pack or the unaffiliated humans of the town could be affected. As is it with stable Packs.”

Stiles fell silent at that.

Peter pulled into the driveway of a brown stone house, clicking a button on his keychain that slid open a gate at the end of the driveway. He drove inside, the gate closing automatically behind him. He turned off the car but made no move to get out of the driver’s seat. “Before I take you inside, I would request that you keep the location of my house to yourself,” he said.

“What, from my dad?”

“Him, yes, as I hold no particular affection for law enforcement showing up unexpectedly,” he said. “But I was more referring to McCall and Derek.”

Stiles nodded, doing his best to swallow an unexpected flash of hurt. “Scott’s not answering my calls, so that’s not a problem, and I told you at Outback, Derek doesn’t like me. He’s only gonna show up when he needs something from me or when he needs me to talk Scott into something for him,” he said. “Not that that second piece is going to happen any time soon, but still.”

“And yet,” Peter prompted.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’ll keep your batcave a secret,” he said, holding up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Peter snorted. “Somehow I doubt you were ever a scout,” he said. “Get out,” he said almost good-naturedly, gesturing at the door.

...

Once inside, Stiles was immediately distracted by the interior. “Seriously?” he asked, looking around. Enormous, open kitchen, bright interior, large windows, and a set of French doors leading out to a large backyard that backed up to the edges of the Preserve. Most of the doors in the hallway were closed, but Stiles had a feeling he’d be back later on to investigate the contents hidden inside them. Peter had let him in once, after all, and he hadn’t exactly hidden the location from Stiles, given that he’d literally opened the door for him. “Dude, I’m telling you, you’ve completely subverted all my expectations. I was expecting, like, earth tones and leather furniture, not a sectional sofa and a huge flatscreen tv,” he said, flopping down onto the couch and grinning as he sank into it slightly. “ _Dude_.”

Peter watched the teenager from his spot, leaning against the large kitchen island. “I only bought the place about a week ago. Haven’t had time to paint, but I saw no need to deny myself the basic creature comforts,” he said. “I’ve got a leather armchair that’s going to be delivered at the end of the month.”

Stiles nodded, sprawling out on the couch and kicking a few of the throw pillows onto the floor in the process. “That’s more like it,” he said. “How else are you gonna fancy up the place? Cause I gotta be honest, it looks like you’re living in a Home and Gardens house,” he said. “Red walls? Dexter-style room kitted out for evildoing? Hidden room you open with a trick book on one of your bookshelves?”

“Hardly,” Peter said with an indignant sniff. “The walls will be a light green, I think, and I have no interest in plastic sheeting. All of this will be accompanied by the best runic wards I can implement,” he said.

“You’re not even gonna black out the windows?” Stiles asked, almost disappointed.

“You are aware I’m a werewolf, not a vampire, I would hope?” Peter asked, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles.

“So you’re _not_ gonna wander around your house in a full shift, is what you’re saying?”

“What makes you think I’m capable of a full shift?” Peter asked, walking into the living room. He paused at one of the bookshelves, looking through the contents for a moment before pulling a specific tome off the shelf. He handed it to Stiles. “Can you make sense of any of this?”

Stiles took the book and opened it up, flipping through the pages. Nothing in particular stood out. “You realize this is all scribbles?” He paused when something unexpectedly caught his eye.

“Runic writing tends look that way at first glance, yes,” Peter said, taking a seat on the couch next to Stiles. “What is it?”

He stared at the page, eyes focused on one set of runes in particular. “This one looks familiar,” he said, pointing at the set. “I can’t tell you what it says, but it looks really familiar.”

Peter leaned over. “Futhark. I suppose that makes sense. You have Scandinavian heritage?”

Stiles furrowed his brow at the older man. “My Nan was Polish?” he offered, curiosity evident.

“And your grandfather?”

He shrugged. “Never met him. And Dad’s parents retired to a place up in Juneau. They call like once a year at New Year’s, but I don’t know where they’re originally from. Michigan, maybe, but somewhere continental. Dad said they pitched a fit when he brought Mom home because she was foreign.”

Peter watched him for a moment. “You are rather forthcoming, aren’t you?”

Stiles shrugged again. “You’re letting me inside your house and sharing an old book of runes. I figure it’s only fair,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at the man. “This isn’t an excuse for you to start ramping up the creep factor, though.”

“Of course not,” Peter said amiably. “Consider my interest expressed solely in the interest of fostering the talent of a new Pack member. Purely platonic.”

He just scoffed.

Peter’s amusement went suddenly sharp, eyes flaring electric blue momentarily. “Do you doubt my intentions, pet?”

Stiles met the man’s gaze without hesitation. “I doubt that any of your intentions have ever been _pure_ , Hale,” he said. “And you’re way too creepy with me to be platonic.”

He just smiled placidly at Stiles. “I’ve told you before, pet, I like you. You’re the only one I’ve met who uses their brain in this town,” he said. He edged over to sit almost flush against Stiles and ran a hand over his head in an unsubtle scenting. “It does help that you’re not as underage as I first thought.”

Stiles elbowed him in the gut, scowling at the fake wince of pain that action earned.

Peter smirked but moved back to give him some more space. “I’ve got sushi in the fridge,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer something else?”

“Nah, sushi works,” he said, watching as Peter stood up and moved back into the kitchen. “It’s fresh, right? You’re not about to feed me rancid fish, are you?”

“Hardly,” he said. “I bought it this morning. If you get soy sauce on that book, though, I will tie you up and leave you in the middle of the Preserve to find your own way home.”

“Rude,” Stiles said, unable to hide his grin at the threat as he followed Peter in the kitchen. Very pointedly leaving the book on the couch as he moved. “And here I was thinking you were going to be all polite and shit with me.”

Peter snorted. “I am in no mood to restrain my nature around you, pet,” he said, pulling a few trays of sushi out of his fridge and setting them on the island. “Do you prefer sushi by hand or by chopstick?”

Stiles watched silently as Peter then retrieved two plates and began divvying up the sushi. “I’m not sure which is the safer option with you,” he said, opening a package of spicy tuna and grabbing a slice of the ginger. “You’re in no mood to restrain your nature, after all,” he added with a mean little smile.

Unexpectedly, Peter just chuckled. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Stiles,” he said. He opened a drawer and set a pair of chopsticks on the counter in front of Stiles. “Your choice, either way.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Stiles, perhaps as expected, was the one to break it. “Alright. I’m not gonna complain about not being alone and being fed raw fish, but why single _me_ out? I’m one human when there’s a whole bunch of werewolves running around town, all volatile and prime for mentorship?”

Peter was silent for another brief moment, watching Stiles with an odd look on his face. “I approached you solely because you _are_ the human running with wolves, pet,” he said. “We have fangs and claws to defend ourselves while you possess no such natural defenses.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“And yet,” Peter said, eyes flickering briefly electric blue. “You upheld your loyalty when confronted with the risk of hunters, and you have not denied any involvement with our kind. It’s rare, for a human, and given your ability to manipulate mountain ash, I find myself increasingly interested in your welfare.”

Stiles just frowned, not sure what Peter was getting at but willing to give him some leeway - if only for the sake of his own curiosity.

“I would like to see you keep yourself safe, pet,” Peter said before taking a bite of the salmon sashimi. “If you would allow it of me.”

Stiles stuffed a California roll into his mouth to avoid having to respond immediately, thinking about what Peter had said. The phrasing seemed oddly formal. He had to admit, the concept was appealing. Peter knew more about the supernatural than any of the Bitten werewolves - and unlike Derek, he seemed willing to actually share what he knew. Still, he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t push the issue. “And if I didn’t allow it?” he asked.

Peter shrugged, the briefly disappointed expression on his face conflicting with the calculatingly casual gesture. “You are Pack, Stiles. I’m going to do my best to keep you as safe as I can, but if you’d like to be more proactive in keeping yourself safe, I am certainly happy to facilitate that as well.”

There was a catch to that, Stiles knew. There had to be. And yet, he wasn’t able to stop himself. “Supposing I did take you up on that offer, how, _exactly_ , would you facilitate that?”

The smile he got in response, fanged as it was, appeared entirely genuine.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, unrelated, if anyone's interested in being a beta reader for original fiction in maybe 6-8 weeks or so, let me know. I think my little scrap of fiction may be scraping itself loose, and outside eyes would be helpful - no pressure :)


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